by Vivien Reis
"Pop-tarts," a dark-haired boy named Ron guessed. "I'm starving. Please be Pop-tarts."
"No, but it is edible. Anyone else?"
"Candy corn?"
"We're not that close to Halloween, Miss Rebecca." He waited, eyes scanning the room. "It's beef jerky." He opened the box and pulled out a bag.
"Yes!" Ron held his hands out, palms up in mock religious reverence.
The rest of the class passed in a lecture on how nomads and travelers, who needed a good source of protein to tide them over while on the move, had developed beef jerky. They each got a piece and Mr. Flynn moved on to Native American agreements and trade in the early days of settlements.
Ben knew the gist of it from movies growing up, but the lesson pulled him in. History never did this to him. But it was easy for him to pay attention today, to something completely unrelated to his personal life.
The bell rang, marking the end of the day. Mike and the guys took off to their hockey conditioning, but Ben lagged behind.
"Hey, Ben." Mr. Flynn was neither overly sympathetic nor concerned. "Good to have you back."
"Thanks."
"You know, I picked your topic especially for you. Druidic cults can be a very...engrossing topic. I did my thesis on it."
Ben glanced around the room again to make sure no one else was lingering about in the halls. "Have you been to see Dad?"
Mr. Flynn pressed his lips together. "Yes. Every day."
So had Ben. He hadn't missed one. "You going there today?"
A nod.
Mr. Flynn did a quick once-over of Ben as if to check if he was physically all right.
"I want you to try something with me. It may seem odd, but I want you to try it, okay?"
Mr. Flynn allowed Ben a moment to respond, but he didn't, suspicion stopping him.
"I think you might benefit from meditation."
Ben leaned his head back, surprised. "Meditation?"
He looked his teacher over, his dad's best friend, his mom's...he didn't know what. This man did meditation?
"There are a couple videos I like to listen to before bed. They're guided meditations on YouTube. They'll put you right to sleep."
Sure. Ben could definitely imagine himself watching a guided meditation video. Not in a million years.
"Trust me, I think they would help. It does great things for the mind."
Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Ben changed topics to discuss the real reason he had stayed behind after class. The yearbook. It sat on the dresser in his room, unopened.
"How did you and my mom meet?"
Any lines of worry and concern melted off Mr. Flynn's face. He looked down at his feet. "In elementary school." He smirked. "She sat beside me in first grade and every class after that until we graduated."
Ben didn't want to know. Did he? His dad might never hear the truth and it twisted Ben's stomach into knots. How often were a guy and girl able to be close friends without hooking up? Had Mr. Flynn and his mom...
"She was there for me when my mom died. We were twelve. I hated the world. She hated it with me." He smiled, not at Ben, but up toward the ceiling, remembering. "She used to love to explore. I remember we got lost just south of Blue Mountain one day. We rode our bikes out there and the sun set and it was morning before we found our way out. Our parents nearly killed us."
"So, why did Dad never know you two were so close?"
"He did. In a way."
"No, he didn’t. Why didn't you tell him?" Ben's voice grew louder.
Mr. Flynn opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. The setting sun cast an orange glow on the left side of his face, the right side falling in darkness. He looked down, staring at his palms.
Ben wanted to shake him. "Huh? Why! Why did you lie to my dad, to me, for my entire life?"
"It's not that simple!" Mr. Flynn's head snapped up, and for the first time in his life, Ben saw fear in him. He got up and strode to the window, turned to approach Ben, and then walked to the classroom door instead.
He locked it. A nervous rush tingled through Ben's body. Mr. Flynn came back to the center of the room, his voice a breath of a whisper.
"Look, what I'm about to tell you must never leave this room. You can never tell another soul. Not your sister, your grandmother, no one."
Ben held his breath, waiting. Was this Mr. Flynn's confession? Was he about to tell Ben that he and his mother had had an affair?
"I've been suspecting this for some time now, but I wasn't sure. Your case is so odd, so late in life, that it confused me. If your mother had told you about us but swore you to secrecy, then it would make sense. I'm no Marksman, but you had the pull. The feeling in my gut had never been wrong before." He was talking more to himself than to Ben.
Heat rose to Ben's cheeks as he tried to follow along. What was he talking about? His hands balled into fists. Did he mean this as a joke?
"But each time I tried to gauge a reaction from you, I got nothing in return. No inkling of a response from you that would prove your affiliation. I couldn't trust that though. If your mom had taught you our—"
"Mr. Flynn!" It came out in a roar and shocked the man into silence. He hadn't even been looking at Ben until then. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
There was no response, but Mr. Flynn shuffled from one foot to the other, seemingly lost for words.
"Hello! What. Are you. Talking about?"
"Your...gift."
It took a moment for the word to sink in, for a chuckle to explode from Ben's chest. Mr. Flynn was losing his mind.
"Gift? Did you see that last test?"
"Not gifted like that," Mr. Flynn said, lower, calmer. It made Ben want to shout even louder. "I would have sworn that your mom told you."
"Told me what?"
A locker slammed in the hallway, just outside the classroom. Mr. Flynn waited until the students' voices grew quieter as they left.
"Your mind can do things that most can't."
"Ha! That’s hilarious.” But Mr. Flynn wasn’t laughing and he didn’t falter. “Like try to melt out of my ears or make me have seizures? I don't see anything gifted about that."
"You’re transitioning. I'll get to that in a minute, but this gift is like a muscle, Ben. A muscle that not everyone has. It allows you to do...other things."
"Like what?" Ben challenged.
Like alter reality.
The room's orange color changed to purple, then red, then green. Ben stumbled backward, blinking, grasping for something to hold on to, something real.
"It's okay." The classroom returned to its original orange glow.
"Wha-what the hell was that? Did you...did you see that?"
He was breaking, just like his mom had. They would lock him up and the police would never find Abi and Gran would die alone one day. His dad would die alone one day, no one but Gran to sit vigil beside his bed.
Ben glanced away, trying to calm down. Through the window, he saw Avery emerge from the woods off in the distance, heading toward the parking lot. He was still wearing the same thin jacket.
"You're not making any sense."
He got a mumbled response and turned to see Mr. Flynn with his head down, hand over his mouth in thought.
"What did you say?"
"I...I just thought you knew. How could you not?"
So many responses flooded Ben's mind that nothing could come out. His hands trembled at his sides. He thought Mr. Flynn was someone he could trust, and now he was spouting some nonsense.
Mr. Flynn's hands came up slowly, as if sensing Ben's oncoming breakdown. "Let me show you."
Ben stared, waiting for Mr. Flynn to show him something, waiting for him to move around to his desk, to open a drawer. "Show me what?"
He responded by stepping toward Ben until they were within arm's reach. Ben took an involuntary step back.
"Please. Let me show you." He reached up, hand hovering by Ben's head.
"What are you doing?" Something told Be
n this was wrong. Wrong. He should leave. Run.
His hand moved with slowed patience, closer and closer to Ben's head until his finger gently pushed on Ben's temples.
Light erupted in the dim room, making his eyes throb. He winced but when he opened them, he was alone, standing in a field. The same field he had seen before, but not exactly. The colors weren't as bright and the tree not as large. Tiny details were missing, like the smell of the golden grass and the heat from the sun.
The scene fled from his mind, dropping him to the floor in Mr. Flynn's classroom. Tears stung at his eyes, and his voice shook as he strained to breathe. "What was that?"
His teacher knelt in front of him. "Have you seen that before?"
"Yes! What was that?"
"It's the Tree of Deia. It's our origin tree. It's been a long time since my transition, so my rendition of it might not have been so accurate."
The world shook side to side as Ben's head moved left, then right, then left. Slow. Fast.
"Our Deia has chosen you, Ben. You've been marked to receive Her gift. That's why you've glimpsed the tree."
"No."
No, no, no, no, no. Ben had hit crazy town. He was on the train, pulling up to the station. Was he imagining all of this? Was Mr. Flynn just nuts?
Or worse. Had his hallucinations grown? He stood, pressing his hands hard to his head, rubbing his hair. That's what was happening. Mr. Flynn wasn't really there. He wasn't real. Ben was imagining this whole conversation.
"You're not imagining this conversation."
Ben met his firm eyes. How had he...?
"Have you been having any visions lately? Unrelated to the tree?"
Ben jerked to a stop, not realizing he had been pacing. How had Mr. Flynn known about that?
"I think your mom's gift passed on to you."
"My mom is schizophrenic." The words were grating, rough stone coming out of Ben's mouth. "There's nothing gifted about her!"
"You're wrong. That's the real reason your mom and I know each other. That's how I came to live here in Logan's Bluff. To be with Mary."
Mr. Flynn held out his hand, palm up. Mist swirled, puffs of pink and green and yellow, fusing together as a flower. A solid flower from the mist, from nothing.
"How are you doing that?" Ben choked out. He was insane. Crazy crazy crazy.
Mr. Flynn's hand snapped closed. "I think your body is rejecting the transition. I think it's the stress, the change. For a while, I was sure you knew, and that your mother had told you to keep quiet about it. I thought you became ill from the trauma of finding your father, but now I know. You're transitioning."
"Transitioning into what?"
"An Oracle."
Images of crystal balls on dimly lit tables flashed through Ben's head.
"I've lost it." Ben's voice was thin, frail, ready to snap in the air like glass.
"No. You haven’t." Calm. Something soothed its way from Mr. Flynn to Ben, and Ben tried to gather the pieces of his mind together. "Do you know anything about the topic I assigned you earlier? Druids?"
Ben furrowed his brows, wondering what that could possibly have to do with anything they were talking about. "Uh, I don't know...from video games?"
Mr. Flynn huffed, as if insulted by this.
"No." He drew the word out,, stepping back to lean against his desk. He switched into teacher-mode, the change almost visible. "Practicing druids were part of a professional class, going as far back as the third century. Some religious druid leaders were thought to harbor special abilities, assisting villages in maintaining thriving crop systems and health."
"What does this have to do with anything?" Ben sat back against something hard – a desk – and rubbed at his head. It was throbbing again.
"The common name for an Oracle is Druid." Mr. Flynn stared pointedly at Ben, like this had some hidden meaning.
"And? What do rain dances and snake oils have anything to do with what we’re talking about right now?."
"Yes—I mean, rain dances don't work, but the people who were Druids were real."
What was Ben doing? Why was he still listening to this?"I'm not explaining this very well." His teacher paced, the black loafers squeaking slightly with each step. "They had powers. Druids are real. Oracles are real."
How long had it been since Mr. Flynn had assigned him that topic? Had Ben constructed this entire conversation around that minute detail in his day, imagining everything that had happened after school? How did he even know he was awake? That he wasn't dreaming?
"You're awake, Ben. You don't have schizophrenia and neither did your mom. I think someone got to her—when she first got sick—and I think it's linked to what's happening now."
"I don't understand."
"You have to trust me. There are bad people out there with the same gifts you and I have, and I think they're responsible. For all of this."
Ben got up and faced the window again, leaning his forehead against the chilled glass. Something changed in him, like an anchor loosening its grip, allowing him to rise closer to the surface. Was he crazy for wanting to believe him? Believe he wasn't losing his mind, and that his mom hadn’t either?
Or was it crazier to believe any of it? He whirled around. "If this is true—then why can't I...do things with my mind too? Why can't I move objects or levitate or..." As the words left his lips, heat rose to his cheeks. Even if this conversation was all in his head, he felt foolish for posing a serious question about levitation.
"We don't exactly levitate." Mr. Flynn's tone was conversational, like he was explaining another item in the box on his desk. "And we don't move things with our minds. Our gifts are channeled through the minds of those around us. We can influence what they see and feel and fully connect our minds with our bodies."
Ben eyed him sideways. It kind of made sense. But only in a movie. What did he mean they didn't exactly levitate?
"Think of the connection between the human brain and the body as a radio station. Normal minds have a strong enough signal to hear the broadcast, but there's static. They can't hear the uniqueness of each sound. We," he motioned from himself to Ben, "have a much stronger signal. Our minds build a bridge between our brains and our bodies. A strong bridge." He looked at Ben pointedly, waiting for him to have an ah-ha moment.
He didn't.
"Okay...umm." Mr. Flynn looked like he was about to say something but then rushed behind his desk instead, rifling through the drawers. He pulled out a lime green yo-yo. "We're going to change this yo-yo to whatever color you want it to be."
Ben couldn't help but roll his eyes this time, an exasperated laugh threatening to escape.
"This is enough." The sides of his head pulsed with tight pressure. "This doesn't make any sense, Mr. Flynn. I can't—" He grabbed his backpack, which had fallen to the floor at some point during their conversation. "I have to go."
"Wait!" Mr. Flynn's hand rested gently on Ben's arm and he stared at it. "Let me show you this and then you can go home, whether you believe me or not."
Ben hesitated, the tingling along his neck signaling a bad headache was imminent. He should go home.
But what did he have to lose? If this was all a hallucination, what were a few more minutes? If Mr. Flynn was just crazy, would that change anything?
"Good, okay." Mr. Flynn exhaled, taking Ben's silence as cooperation. He grabbed Ben's backpack and set it back down.
"Pick a color, anything other than the yo-yo's color. I want you—"
"Blue," Ben said, shrugging.
Mr. Flynn huffed. "Pick a different color now and don't tell me this time. Concentrate on that color. Imagine that color enveloping the yo-yo, how the light hits it and how parts of it fade into shadow."
Without hesitation, Mr. Flynn grabbed his hands, enclosing the yo-yo inside of them. He pressed his hands above and below Ben's, the heat warming between them. This was the most physical contact Ben had ever had with Mr. Flynn, and he fought the urge to pull away.
He ima
gined what Mike would say about him "holding hands" with a teacher.
"Now, close your eyes and concentrate. Imagine the color being painted on the yo-yo with an invisible paintbrush."
Paintbrush. Like what his mom had used, dipping it in his dad's blood over and over again.
"Give it a specific shade. Is it light? A deep color? Don't answer that though. Just think it."
His palms grew clammy from the heat between their hands. He tried to refocus, to think of a color, but he couldn't. The paintbrush burned into his mind, leaving its own trail of red.
"Keep thinking. Keep pushing the color onto the yo-yo."
Color. Red. Dark and deep. No. Not red. A paintbrush. He pulled away, squeezing the object in his shaking hand.
"Okay. That's enough. I tried your weird little game. I—" The next words felt so close to an adult's thoughts that Ben had to reset his himself. "I don't think this is good for me. Whatever story you've concocted, it's over. None of this is real."
When he finished, he had expected, had wanted, Mr. Flynn to argue with him further, to yell back. But he didn't. He just nodded toward the yo-yo still in Ben's hand.
He wanted to throw the stupid thing at Mr. Flynn, pelt him right in the face with it. His fingers were stiff and slow to open, revealing what lay across his palm.
It wasn't a yo-yo anymore.
It was a paintbrush, red liquid dripping from the end, smearing on his palm.
The world slowed and Ben watched it roll and float to the floor, landing and bouncing before lying still. Everything faded away until it was just Ben and the paintbrush, its presence crushing his lungs, stabbing his chest. What was happening to him?
A muffled hum sounded near him, and he tried to ignore it, staring at the thing on the floor. It sounded again, clearer this time. "Ben?"
Mr. Flynn came into focus in front of him, kneeling. Ben must have sat down.
"Are you all right?"
What kind of question was that? When he turned back to the paintbrush, though, it was gone.
"I got rid of it. I'm sorry, I didn't know that would happen."
Ben was broken, a crumpled heap on the floor. This was impossible. It couldn’t be real. He grabbed his bag and stumbled toward the door, lightheaded.
